


(We Never Go) Out of Style

by parcequelle



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Collection: Fandom Stocking 2014, F/F, Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a woman who was hanging out at the turn of the previous century, Helena is one of the most brazen people Myka has ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(We Never Go) Out of Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HopefulNebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefulNebula/gifts).



> I had so much fun writing this that it got away from me a little in length... but I really hope you enjoy it! :)

"Good evening, Myka. I trust you're well?'"

Myka, sitting calmly in a snuggly armchair in Leena's B&B, springs into the air in shock and, in doing so, promptly drops her fragile first edition copy of _The Island of Doctor Moreau_ onto her foot. "Ow!" She glares, first at her now-throbbing foot, and then at the woman lounging against the doorjamb, looking for all the world like it's _normal_ to just turn up unannounced in someone's living room in the dead of night, wearing an imperceptor vest, and start making casual small talk.

"What can I say?" Helena says nonchalantly, a shrug rolling off her shoulders like drops of dew off a leaf in the morning, and Myka realises she'd said that whole bit out loud. "I wanted to see you. It's been a while."

Myka stares. "It's been _two days_."

"You really ought to know by now, darling, that I have a different perception of time to most people."

"No doubt," Myka says carefully, after a beat. Then, crossing her arms over her chest and drawing herself up to her full height (less considerable than usual given that she's wearing fluffy slippers, but it's the thought that counts), she demands, "What are you doing here, Helena? If you don't tell me in the next three seconds what the hell you want, I'm going to Tesla you and then call Artie."

Helena, to her frustration, merely looks thoughtful. "I do suppose the latter is the more threatening of those two options, though I confess that neither holds a great deal of appeal."

"Helena!"

"All right, all right," she says, and hey, when did she start to use the placating voice on Myka? Myka glares at her again, the Pete glare, and is quietly gratified when Helena slowly puts down her hands and schools her face into an expression that at least pretends to take her more seriously. "I'll do as you ask, though for what it's worth – as a show of good faith, you understand – I ought to inform you that I know you don't have a Tesla on you right now."

Myka smiles as pleasantly as she can. “Want to bet?”

Helena tilts her head, coy, and says, “Shall I search you?”

She rolls her eyes to hide her instinctive reaction – to blush – and says instead, “God, you are incorrigible,” with a long-suffering sigh worthy of the high school theatre career she never had because she always had her head stuck in a book. A book by this woman, some of the time, though she tries not to think about that... which reminds her. “Explain yourself or I'm calling--”

“Myka, darling, really – you don't think I wouldn't have taken a couple of necessary precautions before instigating this visit?”

Myka blinks. “What did you--”

“Please, I haven't harmed them – I'd hoped you would know that I wouldn't resort to such... indelicate measures. I merely ensured that they shouldn't be inclined to disturb our little dalliance.”

“ _Dalliance_? What – before you tell me what _that's_ about, and _yes_ , Helena, I do want to know – I demand that you tell me what you've done to the others.”

Helena sighs. “My, my, dear girl, if you insist.” She holds up a small, worn, grey leather pouch for inspection, and waits a moment as Myka allows her usefully encyclopaedic brain to sort through the artefacts that could match the appearance and description, until-- 

She gasps. “Is that the stardust from the _original Sandman_? Helena, that could kill them! What have you--”

“Only when used in large amounts and with decidedly malicious intent does it become harmful, Myka; please calm yourself. I merely made use of a small sprinkling to generate pleasant and deeply involving dreams to the minds of your colleagues. They shall wake as they always do, and likely in a better mood for my ministrations. You'll thank me.”

Myka looks at her darkly. “We'll see about that. But you still haven't told me what you're doing here.”

Helena's gaze flicks briefly to the ceiling in what Myka imagines to be the Victorian-era equivalent of an incredibly derisive eye-roll, and sighs lightly. “No, indeed.” She fidgets with the edge of the vest, not meeting Myka's eyes for a moment, and then says, “I dare say I am rather unused to finding myself in such a situation as this. I feel somewhat...” she laughs a little, a sound that peals softly through the room, winding its gentle way in and out of Myka's senses, “...embarrassed. I suppose that's the most appropriate word.”

“You,” Myka says flatly, and it definitely isn't a question, though she'd intended it to come out as one. “You, H. G. Wells, embarrassed?” She shakes her head, recrosses her arms more firmly over her chest. “Uh-uh. I don't buy it.” 

“Nervous?” Helena ventures.

“Nope.”

“Jumpy?”

She shakes her head again.

“Shaky? Jittery? Agitated?”

“Impressive modern vocabulary, but none of the above,” says Myka. “You want me to believe you, you're going to have to try a little harder than that.”

To her surprise, this challenge is met with a saucy smile – distressingly appealing, though Myka prides herself upon her ability to remain professional and unaffected, even in the face of the occasional flirtatious 150-year-old woman who shouldn't be anywhere near as attractive as she is. “Very well then,” Helena says, and okay, when did Myka let her get that close? She should really do something about that.

Helena reaches over and brushes the soft, dry pads of her fingers against Myka's wrist, the light, most unthreatening of touches, and Myka jumps. “Now look who's nervous,” Helena murmurs in her stupid gloating voice, with her stupid English accent, and Myka glares, because seriously, if this is the only weapon in her arsenal she'll damn well use it as often as she can.

“Helena,” she pronounces, taking a deliberate step back from this woman who does not smell at all like bronze or danger or death or the past. “ _What do you want?_?”

A long, thick moment builds between them, Helena's eyes as dark and deep and rich as any Myka has ever seen, and as brilliant, as full of promise; she knows she could get lost in them, so easily and so willingly, and she steels herself against the near-physical pull that seems to want to draw her across the space dividing them. Myka's heart is fluttering wildly beneath the cage of her ribs, her stomach tight, and she wonders: could Helena have an artefact that's doing this?

“I hardly suspect that you'll believe me,” Helena says, her lips a twist of mirth, “but I've come to seek your advice in matters of... fashion.”

“I'm sorry, _what_?”

“I know that you heard perfectly well what I said, and I don't care to--”

“No, Helena, I don't mean 'what?' as in 'why would ask that?', though to be honest, there's a little bit of that in there; I mean 'what?' as in... why would you ask _me_?”

Now Helena blinks, appears genuinely confused by the confusion.

“You do get that I'm – _me_ , don't you? Okay, so maybe this isn't exactly relevant cultural material to a person of your--” at Helena's warning look, she coughs discreetly and amends that to, “--of your _time_ , but I was a nerd in high school. I read books. I founded the history club. The popular kids only talked to me when I was tutoring them in math.” When this doesn't appear to move her, Myka says, “I sometimes wore my dad's old shirts. I wore big glasses.” She even makes the motion, fingers closing a wide circle over her eyes. “And I had crazy hair that always looked like I'd slept in a hayloft, no matter how many times a day I brushed it. I am not what anyone would call their 'go-to fashion girl'.”

Helena watches her for a long moment and then says, carefully, “I'm afraid I fail to comprehend the logic behind that statement. You are a beautiful woman, Myka, and you dress in a manner that compliments your beauty to a most flattering degree. I came to you now for three reasons: the first is that, while I dare say I have adapted reasonably well to life in the 21st century, one of the many modern constructions that continues to entirely baffle me is that of the 'shopping centre' – or 'malls', as I suppose you'd say.” She articulates the word with distaste, a proverbial bug on her dinner plate. “The second is this: of the few people in this time I've had the dubious pleasure of meeting, you are the only one to even come close to earning the status of a conversation-worthy, let alone trustworthy, companion.” 

She sidles closer again, and this time, for whatever reason known to the big wide universe at large, Myka doesn't make a move to stop her. Helena doesn't touch her, but she leans in close, warm breath caressing the shell of Myka's ear and raising goosebumps along the (thankfully hidden) length of her arms. “And the third, dear Myka, is that every time we've encountered one another, you've looked fabulous. I'm out of my time here, as well you know, and I could use a few tips on how to... make the most of my figure.”

Well, this is certainly the most suggestive conversation she's ever had with a supposedly-dead author of incorrectly historically recorded gender.

“After all,” Helena purrs, “I don't expect that the world has changed quite so much that a woman no longer – shall we say _benefits_ from looking her best. Wouldn't you say?”

Her fingers have curled their wicked way into the collar of Myka's t-shirt and are stroking there, just at her collarbone, maddeningly soft. It occurs to Myka dimly that she is doing an astonishingly poor job both of defending herself and of maintaining any semblance of a desire for distance between them – though if it had really been on Helena's agenda to kill her tonight, Myka tells herself, she's had plenty of chances to do it already. The thought is sobering, and her belated, half-hearted effort to step away is met with a characteristically impeccable show of dignity from Helena: an elegant drop of the hand and a smile like she's won.

But Helena is still looking at her, eyebrow lifted in expectation, and Myka... Myka has no idea what the hell Helena last said, or what _she's_ supposed to say in response to it. Helena probably knows why – definitely knows why, if the infuriatingly smug light in her eyes is anything to go by – but Myka ignores it and instead, in an attempt to expedite the entire process, says, “So how can I help? Drive you to the mall and help you pick out a few outfits? Tell you which stores to avoid because they're aimed at the teenyboppers?”

“At the what?”

Despite herself, Myka cracks a smile. “Never mind.”

“No, darling – sweet of you to offer, of course – but that won't be necessary. And can you imagine what Artie would say? He'd sooner believe that I'd held a gun to your head and kidnapped you for ransom than that we'd gone off on a shopping spree together. I think not. No, my dear, I'm rather in the market for some more personal advice.” Helena gestures towards the sofa. “Would you care to sit back down?”

“I prefer to stand,” Myka replies, the incongruence of Helena asking the question in Myka's living room not lost on her. And then, because why the hell not, she's already come this far: “I can get a better look at you from here.”

“Just as I'd hoped,” Helena murmurs slyly, and God, for a woman who was hanging out at the turn of the previous century, she is one of the most brazen people Myka has ever met.

“The first thing you need to remember is that this is not 1900: basically, as long as you're... covered,” here she gestures vaguely in the direction of Helena's chest, and is furious to feel the heat on her cheeks when Helena smirks, “you can pretty much get away with anything.” Before Helena can open her mouth to make some suggestive remark out of _that_ , Myka continues. “But you asked specifically for advice from me, so here it is: comfort is paramount. Always. Comfort and style are not necessarily mutually exclusive, though don't get me started on the many problematic branches of the media that will try to tell you otherwise. The things you need are as follows,” and she starts to check them off on her fingers. “At least two pairs of boots, thick-soled and preferably waterproof. A few winter coats; one long, one wind- and also waterproof. Comfortable jeans. You have an amazing body, you won't have any trouble finding some that fit you well, but remember not to sacrifice comfort.”

Helena is nodding, and looks only mildly amused by the seriousness with which Myka is addressing this issue; Myka takes that as a good sign. “The other thing? It's now totally okay for you to dress like a man. You want to wear a suit? Go for it. Wear pants and collared shirts every day if you feel like it. Vests are allowed, are in fact encouraged. You can even wear a tie.” The image of Helena in a vest and tie swims in front of her eyes for a distracting moment and she swallows. “But the main, ah, the main thing is to just express yourself. Wear what you want, feel good when you do it, and seriously, no one will care.” She laughs, a little self-conscious, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I can pretty much guarantee that if people look at you on the street, it's not going to be because you have bad taste in clothes.”

The moment she's risked to look down at her feet mean Helena has had time to advance on her; she lifts her eyes and is met with black ones, humour-laced and so warm. “And what, pray tell me, Myka, do you mean by that?”

“I just, uh--” _am a strong, capable, intelligent professional, and I will not be brought down by this woman's eyes_. She straightens, looks into those eyes, through them. “I mean that you're a very attractive woman yourself, Helena, as I'm sure you're aware.” She lifts her chin a little. “I know how to pay compliments, too.”

“Indeed you do. Now, won't you allow me to pay another of my own?” She's into Myka's personal space again (and seriously, how does she keep doing that?), slim fingers poised to curve at Myka's cheekbone, when a tinkling sound, a silvery kind of rustle, comes from the leather pouch still held tight in Helena's other hand.

They they both glance down at it. Back up at each other.

“Um--” Myka starts, and Helena shakes her head, her smile a twist of something Myka can't identify – disappointment, perhaps? 

“No cause for alarm, darling; that is merely the dust informing me that the 'spell' I cast is at an end, which means, naturally, that I must make haste.”

“But--” but, but she doesn't know what to say. What can she say, besides: “Where are you going?”

Now Helena does smile, and it's one of affection despite the hint of ruefulness lurking beneath the surface. “Now, my dear, don't you think it's better for both of us that I don't tell you that? I'll know where to find you if I need you.”

 _And if I need_ you _?_ Myka wants to say, but she doesn't, because it's ridiculous. Instead she says, “I guess you will.”

Helena reaches out, an impulse she seems not to wish to control, and cups Myka's cheek in a gentle hand. “Thank you ever so much for your company this evening, Myka; it was a pleasure, as ever. And thank you too for your advice; I'll be sure to take it into account.”

“You're welcome,” she murmurs. Her skin is burning where Helena's hand has just released her; can Helena see it?

A faint smile still gracing her lips, Helena turns to leave, hands sitting ready at the imperceptor vest. A thoughtful moment passes and she adds, “After such an abrupt interruption, I dare say it would be terribly rude of me not to return at another time to finish our... conversation, would it not?”

She doesn't wait for an answer – a relief, since Myka is too busy impersonating a goldfish to provide one; just gives a little wave and vanishes from sight. Not a moment too soon; seconds later Leena, brow furrowed, pokes her head around the doorway and asks, “Myka, are you all right? I thought I heard--”

“It's nothing,” Myka says, turns and offers her a smile, finally bends to pick her book up off the floor. “No need to worry. I was just talking to myself.”

Leena studies her, arches an eyebrow. “Then why can't you stop smiling?”

She looks up, lips on the verge of forming a hurried excuse, but Leena's already gone. And damn, Myka realises, she was right. She can't stop smiling. H.G. Wells just came to her for _fashion advice_.


End file.
